


an inch to the left

by LuminaCarina



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Romance, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 05:06:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4250469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuminaCarina/pseuds/LuminaCarina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rain is knocking, won't you let it in?</p><p> </p><p>(Are you in love yet?<br/>No. I don't think I am.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	an inch to the left

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter
> 
> Written for the 5 Drabbles Competition, Round 3

 

**i.**

What happens to a dream when it’s put away, like a robe that has grown too tight with age and cannot be worn anymore?

Sirius isn’t fool enough to think he knows.

He, like everybody else, can but guess at the answer.

_(Sometimes, guessing makes him stay up late at night, and then his head aches in the morning, the pain only made worse by the sight of her and him, and later, years and years later, he will think of her son and think to himself ‘’What if?’’)_

Of course, dreams have a nasty habit of refusing to be shaken off with the arrival of the day, and of hiding themselves in the corners of one’s eyes, like that stray bit dust you can never reach quite high enough to clean off.

_(He watches James when his friend is with Lily, telling himself that love is childish and romance an overrated frivolity, that all it boils down to in the end is lust and foolishness and youth \---- as if he can ever even hope to convince himself of that.)_

He misses the dreams of his childhood, when dreams were those smudges of colour that faded when he tried to recall them, when dreams were as distant as the thought of growing up and becoming someone other than the over-eager, over-excitable child that he was, with scrapes on his _knees and spilled ink on his shirt and ‘’Shh, Reggie, don’t let Father know, he’ll be so angry \----‘’_

And what’s the point of dreaming, when his dreams revolve around that which he can never, ever have? Even in his sleep, she slips away from him, the only thing left in his grasp a smiling ghost, the echo of a quiet giggle…

But, other times, he cannot stop himself from dreaming, and he hates himself for it.

_(She is sweet and kind, her eyes are brown, she smiles at him, asking ‘’Are you alright, Sirius?’’ and she whispers impossible things to him when she thinks no one can hear them, because she’s shy like that, and he cannot stifle the confessions tumbling from his lips, a litany of loveyouloveyouloveyoulove----)_

_(What is the point of it all, really, when even his dreams betray him?)_

 

 **ii.**  

It’s raining, a pitter-patter of insistent knocks on the glass pane of the window, and he focuses on it like it can drown out the noise ringing inside of his head.

Remus sneaks looks at him, worried and trying hard not to show it, and Sirius loves him for it. He loves the soft-spoken werewolf even more when no inquiry comes his way, no well-meaning ‘’Are you well? Do you need to talk about it?’’ to disturb him even further.

_(What has he come to, that he appreciates this silent acknowledgment? Before, he would have pretended to be perfectly fine.)_

He should liken his mood to that of the rain, he should think angry thoughts such as ‘’Why can she not see how much I care? How is he better than me? Why are James and Lily allowed to be so in love when I am so in rage? ---- but he isn’t thinking that. He isn’t.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

The rain is knocking, won’t you let it in?

_(She is laughing, cheeks pink with mirth, and something colours her expression, an openness that unravels him completely, and he wonders how could anyone not love her when she is so breath-taking, so heart-stealing, so time-stopping ---- that someone would have to be less than even the lowliest snail that creeps through the mud. Sirius dutifully ignores him when he takes her hand and says something in response to her laughter.)_

Hogwarts grounds after dark are a sight to see: blackness all around, pierced only by the light of the moon, for the rain washes away even the stars themselves. But the moon ---- the moon looks on, a great white sickle hanging above their heads, waiting to fall, or maybe like the twisted grin of an invisible giant, silently laughing at them all ---- and especially at Sirius.

_(Your star is erased, little boy, and no dogs hunt across the sky tonight. How will you catch her if you cannot find your way?)_

Remus glances at him again, trying to read him instead of the book lying in his lap. Suddenly, he has no more patience for the werewolf’s worry.

‘’So sorry, my friend,’’ Sirius thinks spitefully, ‘’but I am not so easily cracked open.’’

 

**iii.**

Her hair is black.

It’s short, fluttering with every breeze, and he thinks it’s soft. Regardless of its actual texture, he imagines it soft, silky and smooth and a thousand other adjectives that all mean perfection.

But, it’s most defining characteristic is its colour. It’s black.

_(Once, he tried to find the exact shade of black her hair is, and he spent an entire day dozing away during class, counting them all and comparing them, and they all came out... not right. He still counts them sometimes, when he’s tired and cannot sleep, a monotonous lullaby of ‘’Spider, soot, crow, sable, charcoal, raven, ink, midnight, onyx, obsidian, oil…’’)_

They partnered in Herbology once, back in their third year. He’d been indifferent to her then, and nowadays he deeply regrets not grabbing her then and there, and never letting her go. But, anyway.

They partnered in Herbology once, and he remembers how her hair had looked damp, as if she hadn’t dried it after taking a shower. And, ebony. Ebony is the shade of her hair when it isn’t completely dry.

_(She had been sad that day, he thinks, and the teacher had snapped at her for tipping over the stack of terracotta pots. Is she still sad? He wonders if he makes her happy. She certainly laughs when he’s around. Selfishly, he hopes she is. Sad, that is. He hopes that she’s sad, so that he isn’t alone in his misery.)_

_(He’s ashamed of himself for such a desire, but it continues to fester within him nevertheless.)_

 

**iv.**

Almost two decades later, he cannot remember what she looked like, and he is unwilling to go through any old photographs that might tell him.

It’s a bit like letting go, even though he still feels as though her heart beats alongside his own, even though he still feels as unbalanced and confused as he did on the day James and Lily got married, watching them kiss and dance and knowing that it would never be like that for him.

_(He is careful never to slip up and say her name, because saying it would break the spell twenty years of guilt and deliberately closing his eyes to the truth of his reality have woven. It would be akin to throwing a stone into a still pond ---- sudden, unwarranted, and bound to cause uncountable ripples.)_

He watches his godson fumble around the Weasley girl, pathetically and obviously crushing on her, all the while her brothers are sniggering and placing bets on when he will man up and confess to her.

Ah, to be young and stupid again.

_(He wishes he had had the guts to confess to her \---- maybe, if he had, his life would have been different. Maybe he wouldn’t be the escaped convict he is now, but a happy, married man, maybe with children of his own. Maybe James and Lily would be ----)_

He wonders about the other boy, about her son.

He’s Harry’s age, isn’t he?

Sirius considers asking his godson about the boy. It is only right that he learns a bit about her son. In another life, the boy would have been his son, after all. Would have carried Sirius’s name, and not his.

But Sirius is, at the end of all feasible roads he might have travelled, a cowardly lion, at best. He stills his tongue and lurks around the house of his ancestors sullenly, pretending that freedom isn’t in any way better than imprisonment.

_(What good could it do, anyway? She is as good as dead, and her son is worlds away from him. What good would it do, to go picking at old wounds that have barely healed?)_

_(Sirius recalls black hair and little else of substance. In his memories, she is but a mirage, spinning round and round and round, always just an inch to the left from where his fingers sought to catch her.)_

 

**v.**

It is her wedding day, and she feels… strange.

Not afraid, not regretful, not having second thoughts…

Just… strange.

Frank is waiting for her in front of the alter, likely dressed in his best robes and sparkling with joy. She knows her fiancé, and she knows that he isn’t having any doubts either.

But still.

There is something in the air, an electrical charge of something unmentioned, unheard and unseen. Her breath rattles in her lungs; her heart beats a steady rhythm.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

_(Her heart is steady and calm. Her hands don’t tremble either. She is calm, serene. ‘’I wanted to cry on my wedding day,’’ Mrs Longbottom tells her. ‘’I was so afraid. But, I was glad for the fear. It told me that I knew what I was getting into.’’)_

Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

A shadow flickers in the corner of her eyes, but when she turns to see what it was, she sees nothing. Alice closes her eyes for a moment.

When she opens them, there is no shadow hiding from her sight.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

It’s time.

_(She joins Frank in front of the alter, and he flashes her a wide smile. She returns it with a quirk of her own lips, and squeezes his hand when the guests’ attention is on the official. For all that Frank will later claim that the ceremony passed so quickly, she can attest that time did not speed up. She kisses him gently, chastely. When they pull away, she hears many a sniffle from the attendees. Her own eyes are dry.)_

Later, when he touches her like she is the only thing in the world he ever wanted to touch, she allows herself to fade out.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

_(She thinks of Lily and James. ‘’It’s like… I’m on fire every time he looks at me,’’ Lily whispers to her like a schoolgirl sharing a secret.)_

_(‘’It’s never like that for me,’’ she wants to say, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t.)_

Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

Are you in love yet?

No. I don’t think I am.

 

**Author's Note:**

> CP#10 - Sirius Black/Alice Longbottom. 
> 
> Prompt #10 - Colour: Ebony, Object: raindrops, Poem: Dream Deferred by Langston Hughes, Song: Love Me Like You Do by Ellie Golding, Action: spinning


End file.
